charm of the scene by killing—but it was birds they had come for and they took full toll.
On their way back, Louis steered the boat, standing up, and singing under his breath an inconsequential tune. Neale watching him, asked, "Aren't you ever serious?"
"Why should I be?"
"But—with all there is ahead of you . . . Hildegarde's future. . . ."
"I thought we weren't going to talk about Hildegarde."
"But, why not? Sensibly?"
"Because—I'm not sensible."
Winslow flushed with irritation. "Oh, well, if you want to act like a—fool—"
"My dear fellow—why not act like a fool, when acting like a wise man brings worries?"
"But we all have worries—"
"Not—this morning. Neale, did you ever see anything more enchanting than that steamer rising up like Venus above the water—white as milk?"
Thus he shelved further discussion, and it was only at the last, quite surprisingly, as they tied up at the pier that he introduced Hildegarde's name.
He got out his flask and proposed a toast.
"I drink," he said, with cup upraised, "to my adorable daughter."
"To our marriage?"
Louis laughed. "As you please," he said, "the first part of the toast is the only one for which I am responsible."
